


Letters to a Dead Man

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-12
Updated: 2006-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-NFA; Connor suggests that his father mourn Wesley by writing him letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to a Dead Man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Three Months

Dear Wes,

It's been three months since Illyria came to us in that alley with the news of your death, and... damn it, this is a stupid exercise. Connor says I need to mourn you. I don't know what ideas he has about you and me, but they seem to be both a) disproportionate and b) completely ridiculous. I'm not sure I remember us ever being star-crossed lovers, do you? I think he's just enamored with the idea of being one of those cool kids with two dads, or something. Although, since his other parents still think he's really theirs, he kinda does.

I don't know what makes you so fucking special, Wes. I've lost a lot of people I cared about in my life - unlife, whatever - and none of them have cut me this deep. Maybe it's because I feel like you sacrificed yourself for my cause, even after all the rotten things I've done to you, or maybe it's because you were always my greatest champion, but I feel more than a little lost without you to guide me, like there's this hole where you used to be. It's worse than Buffy, even, because with her at least I know I can go do what Cordy called my creepy stalker thing, and make sure she's okay, but you've gone someplace I can't follow, and I hate you for it.

I just compared you with Buffy. Interesting. Maybe there's something to Connor's psych classes after all.

Illyria thinks I should write poetry, like Spike; she still hasn't stopped going on about how you and Spike and Gunn all went out heroes, while she and Connor and I managed to survive. She thinks we're cursed, or something like that. I never did learn how to decipher Illyria-speak as well as you could, and I'm not about to bother now. I think she should be the one writing the poetry, really, because no one ever knows what she's talking about to begin with. She could write the next Odysseus, maybe, and generations of college kids can spend hours trying to pretend they get it.

Lorne's been around. He said he'd be gone for good, but I guess he got curious, wanted to see if any of us were left standing, and he's more or less moved back into the hotel with us. Connor's parents think he's still living on campus, but he's taken up residence here, too. It's almost like a family, but it's more like a survivor's support group. He - Lorne - says there's mystical murmuring going around; something's up with the Shanshu business, anyway, and I don't know what the deal is, because Spike's dead and I signed away my rights to Shanshu.

But I guess maybe you can't sign away a prophecy, can you?

I can almost hear you telling me to stop being an idiot; of course you can't sign away a prophecy. If you could, every coward who'd ever seen himself referenced in one would have already. See, that's what I need you for, Wes. You're, like, the part of me that balances my stupidity, my impulsiveness, my crazy. Everything that was ever good about me, it came from you, and now I'm just spinning like a broken compass because there's bad all around me.

I miss you.

Angel

 

Three Months, One Week

Dear Wes,

I cried for you today. And yesterday, and the day before. You'd laugh. No, really - I holed up in my room for a couple days with the first letter, reading it and re-reading it, and I realized a couple things. First of all, Spike was right about me being a drama queen, and I hate saying that, but I always felt like I could say anything to you, and that hasn't changed just because you're not really here anymore. Second, I might have been just the tiniest bit in love with you. Even when I hated you, I think I always loved you. So I sat there racking my brains - and no, I didn't strain anything - trying to figure out when the hell I went and let myself fall in love with this skinny English kid, and all the good times came back, and the bad times with them, and I just cried.

I cried because there were times we were so happy, and there were times we were just wrecked. Because I'd hurt you, because you'd hurt me, and I cried because neither one of us will be able to hurt the other again. Then, I cried because I couldn't believe I hadn't cried yet. Christ, Wes, three months without a tear. Even when I held your body, praying for a vital sign, something... I didn't cry. I brooded, for a good solid three months, dry-eyed and completely clueless.

Denial is a healthy thing. As long as I clung to denial, I could pretend you weren't really that important, and that was what got me through it. I can't do this without you, Wes, and dying was a really fucking selfish thing to do. You get eternal rest, and I get eternity without you. So now that I'm done with the crying, I'm just pissed. I'm pissed at you for leaving, even though I know you would have stayed if you could. You always did. It wasn't like Cordy - she was stuck with me, because she was saddled with the visions, but you could've left, found a job doing the things you enjoyed - translating, maybe lecturing - and had a life, but you just wouldn't.

You knew, didn't you? That you wouldn't make it to the alley. There was something in your eyes before we all dispersed, before, just this look and I remember thinking, now is not the time for goodbyes, but fuck you, because you got your goodbye in there anyway. You knew, you bastard, you knew and you didn't even give me a hug. 

I hate you. I hate you, because I thought I'd moved from completely devastated to just plain pissed, and now I'm sitting here crying again, and Connor and Lorne are back from the book shop and they're looking at me like I just handed them a million dollars. Lorne says hi.

I miss you.

Angel

 

Four Months

Dear Wes,

Things always made more sense when I ran them by you first, so here goes. I think I'm losing it, just a little bit. Connor and Lorne and even Illyria seem inclined to agree, which is unsettling, because when do all three of them agree on anything?

Here's the thing. There's a girl. Isn't there always a girl? She's nice, she's smart, she's pretty, and she's savvy to the whole supernatural thing... but I'm not sitting there thinking, she's not Buffy, when we're talking. I'm not comparing her to the woman who was supposed to be the love of my life. I'm not even comparing her to Nina. My brain keeps saying to me, she's not Wes. What the hell is that about? Realizing I might be a little bit in love with you is one thing, but...

Who the hell gave you permission to set up shop in my heart and stay there? You're dead, Wes, take your damn claws out of my heart. It's not fair, because I know you never loved me - not like this. If you loved me like I love you, you never would have...

Taken my son from me, in an attempt to prevent me from having to suffer the guilt of killing my own child?

Died for me?

God, Wes, I wish I could talk to you. Even if we could never be together, I would give anything to know. Maybe if I knew for sure that you didn't love me, I could just get over myself. You're the one who was always saying - well, I think Doyle started it, actually - that I need my connections to people to help keep me grounded. I can't make new connections when I spend all my waking moments killing bad guys and trying to keep myself from writing yet another letter to the dead man I fell in love with too late.

I miss you.

Angel

 

Six Months

Dear Wes,

Her name is Emma. She's not you, but the more I tell myself that, the more Connor points out that... she is. If there was a female Wesley, it'd be Emma. Dark hair, blue eyes hidden behind glasses, lean frame... She's even English. God, I'm so predictable sometimes! I can never have the person I want, so I try to find someone who's easy to pretend that I want.

You'd like her. In fact, I had this weird image stuck in my head of the two of you sitting there, drinking tea and making fun of my admittedly thready grasp of Akkadian grammar, and it made me feel a little less dead inside. Being with Emma is confusing, though. Sometimes when I'm with her, I can pretend you're not really dead, but most of the time, she just makes me miss you more. But she's someone to care about, someone to love.

I haven't slept with her. I'm not worried about the curse any more, and not because Nina proved anything... I know I could never be truly happy without you, Wes. That's the thing, though. I feel like I would be betraying you, and betraying myself, and don't you think we've had enough betrayal between the two of us for a thousand lifetimes?

Illyria is losing patience with me. I'm losing patience with her. I think she might leave soon. She claims she's 'growing weary' of inactivity. We still patrol. There's always another vamp in need of staking, another demon with delusions of grandeur who needs knocking down a peg or five, but for the most part all is quiet on the home front, and I can see why she'd be getting a little antsy. She lives for violence in a way I used to be able to relate to.

Last night she sat me down and told me the story of your death again. I was right when I said she should write epic poetry, because you're more and more the hero every time she tells it. Part of me loves to hear it and is even proud to think that I might have had a hand in the development of such a strong man, but most of me just dies a little bit more every time you stop breathing. The fact that you asked her to lie to you, to pretend to be Fred so you could die in the arms of your love, makes me sick with jealousy. Connor says it's stupid, because why shouldn't you want to die in the arms of a friend, when Illyria claimed to be friend to none? I guess he's right, but... I'm an old man, Wes. Allow me my petty jealousy.

I wish you could meet Emma.

I miss you.

Angel

 

Eight Months

Dear Wes,

I finally had to tell Emma why I'd been avoiding being alone with her all this time. I sat her down and told her all about you, every beautiful thing you'd ever done for me, and every wretched thing you'd ever done to me. Then I told her everything I'd done to you. She was really understanding until I showed her your picture, and all of a sudden it made sense.

Why didn't you ever tell me you had a little sister, Wes? I would have made sure she was taken care of, you have to know that. No fucking wonder she looks at me with your eyes - they really are your damn eyes.

I told her I love you, that I'm in love with you, and it's the strangest thing. She acts like that's what she was hoping to hear. She said she's felt guilty these last few months, not telling me her real reasons for spending time with us, with me. When she found out you were gone, she decided it wasn't too late to get to know you - the you your friends knew, not the you your father saw and projected back to her - and she came to L.A. not even knowing if any of us were left.

She's really proud of you, Wes. I'm proud of you too.

I miss you, and I love you.

Angel

 

Nine Months

Dear Wes,

Illyria left. I knew she would sooner or later, but I'd hoped to hold onto her for a little while longer, if only to hear more about you. She knew you so much better than I did, and she didn't even have a soul. The lobby is full of boxes now; things from your apartment that she'd been hoarding in the basement here. She took a few weapons with her when she left, but she gifted the rest to me.

I can't even look in the boxes yet. Emma is fascinated; she can't wait to start sifting through the artifacts of your life, but to me it feels like a kind of farewell I'm not prepared to give you. I think tonight I'll move all the boxes into my room so I can hoard them like Illyria did, like a dragon with treasure. You're mine, and I don't care to share you, or your Bavarian fighting adze, or your threadbare blue bathrobe, or especially your glasses. God, Wes, your glasses! They were, like, part of your face forever!

I don't think I've ever had to deal with anyone's personal effects before. You dealt with Cordy's for me, you dealt with Fred's. Gunn and Spike... I have no idea what happened to their things, and I don't really care. They were never a part of me the way you were. You were the anchor that kept my soul attached, Wes, and I'm falling apart without you.

Emma went back to England for a while; Lorne and Connor went with her. Connor says your father's not quite the bastard he was expecting. I guess maybe my protective streak came out a little when I was telling them how badly your father treated you. Granted I never really met the man, but if that robot had you convinced it was him, it had to be very much like the man himself, because there are a lot of fools in the world but you were never one of them. You have a headstone at your family plot, Lorne tells me, even though you're buried here in the garden. I don't sit with you as often as I'd like to, but Connor says it's really morbid to do that anyway.

Faith called last week. I meant to write you sooner to tell you. She's gonna be a mom, apparently, and you would never guess who the father is. Xander Harris. I mean, if there are two people in all the world I can't imagine having a kid, it would be... well, me and Darla, but them next. I never liked Xander much, but she says he treats her like a queen and they're both really excited about the baby, so I'm happy for them. I told her I thought you'd be happy for them, too, and there was a silence on her end of the line that sounded suspiciously like her making a face that said she thought I'd lost my marbles, but she thanked me.

Emma just found a box of photographs in your things, and she's asking me questions about the people in them. I should go give her all the stories. She never gets tired of hearing them, even the ones that are hard to tell.

I love you, and I miss you.

Angel

 

Ten Months, Two Weeks

Dear Wes

When I woke up this morning, I wasn't dead anymore.

It's the strangest feeling, really, because... I have no idea when it happened. I guess it happened during the night, because I don't remember having a heartbeat when I went to sleep.

I'm alive. This is it, I've got my reward, only... it's hollow. It's an empty victory, without you. You were always the one keeping me on track, even when you lost your own way. This victory doesn't belong to me alone, but alone is exactly how I'll spend it. The sun is warm on my skin as I write this, laying on my stomach in the grass in the Hyperion's garden. It's fallen into disrepair, but the jasmine still blooms there at night, bringing with it bittersweet memories. Right now, all I can think about is you. It's been so long since sunlight has touched my skin gently that the only memories I have of it are filled with you.

I can feel you here, Wes, and it kills me. I see you and Gunn all roughed up and smelling like you'd been for a dip in the sewers, which, of course, you had. I see Cordy in her Pylean princess finery, Fred in her burlap sack and I miss you all so much that it feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

Lorne knows some people, and I'm all 'legal' already. I really hope you're not insulted - I couldn't think about much besides you from the moment I woke up and heard my heart, because I'd dreamed you were there, and I'd thought for a moment when I heard it that you really were - but when Lorne's friend asked me for a last name, I gave Pryce. Connor smirked, and rolled his eyes so much I thought they might come out of his head, and Lorne and Emma grinned like idiots. Emma calls me her brother-in-law, which feels kinda wrong, because you never really got a say in it, but she's family now, so I guess that's all that matters.

She and Lorne have been getting along really well lately. I don't know if there's anything to it, or if it's just me trying to play Yenta to a couple of friends - imagine, the first quarter-century-old, male Yenta - but they seem happy. Connor has a girlfriend, a girl from Gunn's old neighborhood if you can believe that. Such a big city, such a small world. Her name's Rosa, and she's cute. Sweet, but she's got a foul mouth on her. I don't think she realizes I know Spanish, but I'm not about to come out and tell her after all the filthy things I've heard her say to my son. She seems like she'd probably be mortified. I know Connor's not telling her just because he knows it makes me uncomfortable. Kids.

Everybody's got someone now, just like it should be. I wish you were here.

I miss you, and I love you.

Angel

 

One Year

Dear Wes,

You’ve been gone a year today, and I’ve been a real boy 47 days. Why is it that I still feel cold inside? If you were here, you’d tell me I was being an idiot, and maybe I am, but it seems like the world was a better place when I was dead... and you weren’t. Will it ever get better? Will I ever stop missing you and regretting what might have been? How is it that you haunt me when I know you’re not still here? Why didn’t you stay?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop needing you.

Emma's making me go through the boxes, starting tonight. She's been really patient these last... three months, waiting to get into the nitty gritty of your belongings. I let her see photographs, and a few books, but mostly I'd managed to keep your stuff untouched up until now. I'm scared. I don't want to let you go.

I miss you, and I love you.

Angel

 

 

My Dearest Angel,

I have little doubt that you will find this letter melodramatic, but as it is likely to be my last communication to you, I felt it should express my feelings for you as clearly and openly as I am able. Please bear in mind that I am still English.

I am going to face Vale and doubt that I will make it out. I am ready to go, but this has never been about what I want. Since the moment I first laid eyes on you outside of Sunnydale, my life has been devoted to yours, whether that has always been evident or not. Somewhere along the line, my puppy-dog allegiance gave way to something far deeper, and it is because of that deep love I feel for you that I go happily to my grave, knowing that I've done my small part to set you on your course toward your final reward.

My love for you knows no bounds, Angel. I go to my death proud to have stood at your side, but it is my wish that you realize, for better or worse, that these feelings are not platonic. What I wouldn't have given for one kiss or tender embrace before bidding you farewell... but it was not to be.

Yet, there is a part of me that wonders whether you might feel the same, part of me that still dares to hope that when your reward comes, you might choose to share your life with me. A more practical, jaded part of me suggests that there might come a day that my particular abilities are needed again in the fight against evil, however, and that is why I leave you with an option. I have secured a talisman to which I have linked my current vital signs. A mystical 'system restore point' if you will, though that phrase surely means nothing to you. Ask Illyria, perhaps, assuming she lives, or Connor. I beg you not to pull me back to my wasted life to be a hero; I assure you I am happy where I am. But, as always, if you have a need for me, I will come when you call.

Your Faithful Servant,

W. Wyndham-Pryce


End file.
